Her Voice
by Phantom531
Summary: The story of Phantom of the Opera from Erik's point of view. Mostly Leroux influences the notes are all from his novel , leaving behind "nice" Erik for Leroux's edgier one. Rated M For later chapters violence, sex, etc . I DON'T OWN ANYTHING
1. Solitude

The little ballet girls had been playing on the stage again, taking turns singing and dancing and making fun of the prima donna, Carlotta. Not that the horrible woman didn't deserve every barb they threw at her; the woman had once had a lovely voice, but had ruined it with over-taxation and ignorance of limits. Now she was a burbling joke, surviving on reputation alone. And it seemed the audience enjoyed it as long as her name was on it. Despicable! No talent anywhere in the building! Except for that little yellow-haired brat on the stage, who had the intelligence of a teaspoon and the discipline of a poorly trained puppy! Then again, even she lacked the courage to actually use the talents Erik secretly knew she had. The other girls thought of the girl as morose and strange and teased her mercilessly. The girls prodded the tiny yellow-haired girl, trying to get her to sing. Even Meg Giry, the girl's only friend, joined in the torture. She refused, finally bursting into tears after several minutes of abuse from the other girls. Erik knew she would not sing in front of them. If it hadn't been for the intervention of a few of her famous father's benefactors, the child wouldn't be there at all, so unwilling was she to even open her mouth! It was amazing even he knew of her talent. But when she was alone in the chapel, she would sing a little, but only if she was alone. Her voice was not bad, interesting if nothing else. Erik had been listening to her, absolutely appalled at himself. This girl was a child. A _child_! A sniveling, stupid child! She could have such a pretty voice, and she already had perfect tonality, but she had absolutely no discipline! She was under-sized, blonde and useless! She wasn't worth his time if she was unwilling to use her gifts! He turned away from the stage in disgust. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the odd interest he was taking in that girl's voice. Annoyed, Erik dove for the underground passages he called home.

Over the past ten years, he had made a little nest for himself under the streets of Paris. He had travelled the length and breadth of the world and had finally returned here. He had been born in Rouen, running away when he was ten to escape the attentions of his mother. No one to blame but herself, really; she could have accepted that her son had been born….like he was and _not_ gone insane. In a way, he understood; his eyes were small and yellow like a cat's and set so deep in his head as to give the illusion of bare sockets, the skin on the upper half of his face transparent and sunken and his nose…well, that had never grown in at all, leaving a large hole and exposed maxillary sinuses. He was also so thin that, coupled with his face, he gave the illusion that he had been dead for some time. Not pretty to look at, but if she had been a good mother, she would have realized that was her _son_ and loved him the same. But no, her mind had fled by the time he was three and she resorted to vicious beatings and tortures when she was sober enough to notice he was there. He still carried a long scar on the back of his hand where she had tried to pin his hand to the piano with a paring knife; there was also a rippling of scars on his back from when she had tried to set him on fire. That had been the incident that drove him to run away. He figured he would be happier starving on the street than in her care.

He had done a stint in a travelling gypsy fair, as a freak in their show. He had learned magic, sleight of hand, ventriloquism, contortionism, and several other arts while he travelled with them, learning slowly how to frighten people into malleable states to take advantage of them for what he needed. Erik was pretty damn sure that was where he lost his own mind: the effort to ignore the humiliation of having people stare at his unmasked face and the realization upon puberty that, though he may look with longing upon women, they would never look at him with anything but shock, horror, or distain. Still, the fear his face inspired had been useful, and even if he wasn't getting one little thing he wanted, he certainly got everything else. By the time he had met the Daroga, he had become the most powerful man in the camp…at seventeen.

He had built palaces for the Shah of Persia, with trap doors, hidden passages, torture chambers, and other secrets. So many, in fact, that it had almost been his death warrant. Still, the Daroga had helped him escape and he had once again drifted from place to place, picking up architecture on the way. When the Garnier Opera House was being built, he had threatened the little sop Garnier into submitting whatever he told him to, while adding a few touches of his own that weren't in the visible plans as well. And under that Opera House, he made his home.

His house was a tidy little affair, with the newest advantages, such as plumbing for the bathrooms that vented out to the nearby sewers; a clever stove, fireplace and chimney system that piped into the Opera's vents so as not to be noticed; a little living room and dining room and two bedrooms. A large, ornate coffin sat in his room, perhaps an idea leftover from his days as a gypsy, when he began his performance in a coffin. His face had lent itself well to that. The pipe organ that occupied the other side of the room had been built piece by piece, using bits scavenged from a nearby abandoned church organ. He had a spare bedroom, furnished lavishly. Not that he ever used it and he, of course, never had guests, but he had built it and furnished it and kept it clean to give himself something to do. It made him feel normal.

All this and he was stuck with a talentless cast in this Opera! The managers were, luckily, blundering idiots, and a little threat was all that was needed to have them wrapped around his skeletal finger. He had a nice salary going, plus Box 5 reserved for him alone. It had merely taken a day of research to acquire enough blackmail to squeeze Poligny to bend to his will and Debienne was so superstitious that any hint of ghostly mischief was enough to buy his obedience. Still, the music being performed here bothered him. Their casting choices bothered him. The pretty little idiot of a girl –what was her name?- Christine bothered him. While the girl was a complete simpleton, her voice, flat and lifeless though it was, was near-perfect. He certainly could do something with it once he got the girl to open her mouth more than a few times every year. It intrigued him, if only to see where he could go with her. He knew the girl was fanatically religious, in his eyes, another sign of her utter idiocy, and had been waiting for five years for her father to send her an Angel of Music from Heaven. Sickening.

He stalked into his home and dropped into an armchair. Angry at himself for even taking an interest in the human race again, he stared into the fire. He'd made a vow to hate all of humanity and this scrawny little moron of a girl counted! He hadn't worn his mask today; he had not felt a need for it. Suddenly, he felt ashamed, naked. Growing more angry by the minute –first the interest in people, then the fascination with the girl, and now the mask! He had been certain that, since he had decided never to come into direct contact with people again, he would never feel ashamed of who or what he was again! And she had _ruined_ it!

Why he was laying everything on the shoulders of that simple, clinically depressed moron of a child was beyond him. Her mere presence was near-unbearable to him. He hated her, her blind faith, her unwillingness to let the world know that, with a little training, she could have a brilliant voice! She was content to be a shadow, a mere stage-dressing. For some odd reason, the thought of Christine wasting away in obscurity angered him further and this frightened him just a little. He resolved to stop with this nonesense and never look at or listen to the idiot child again! Still, two nights later, he returned to the catwalks above the stage, watching her again.


	2. Faith

It was after hours and Christine and her friend Meg Giry were backstage. Erik knew Meg in a way; her mother was his box keeper and had become sort of an errand woman for him. The girl was younger than Christine, with black hair and black eyes that made her skin look washed out and china-pale. Standing next to her, Christine looked like a smear of white paint on a dark canvas. Meg also had quite an imagination and took to telling horrendous tales that were second only to Buquet's in spectacular details of the Opera Ghost's evils. Erik didn't particularly like the girl, but then, he didn't like anyone these days.

"Oh, Christine, we all know you can sing. And better than that crow Carlotta! Come on now, let's hear it!" the little china doll that was Meg Giry was taunting. Christine was looking in pale-faced horror at the younger girl. While younger, Meg stood taller than Christine. Meg was not a tall girl by any stretch of the imagination, but Christine was so tiny and timid that the mere inches between little dark haired girl seemed be several feet. Christine had been in the chorus for a few years now and was also a dancer in the ballet, preferring to blend in rather than stand out. Erik huffed at her modesty. She was wringing her hands annoyingly, and she looked like she was just about ready to dissolve into a fresh set of tears.

"No, Meg. I don't like to!" Christine practically wailed. She had obviously been prodded by Meg about this for some time; Erik could hear her losing her temper. Possibly a gentler repeat of the events on stage a few days ago, as she and Meg were friends and Meg would not outright hurt her feelings, but it was merciless nonetheless.

"You should! You sing better than that rooster Carlotta any day! Come on!" Meg prodded. Christine swallowed and tried to back away from her, but Meg grabbed her hand.

"Why? I don't understand why you like to torture me so evilly!" the smaller girl cried.

"But, Christine! Perhaps the Phantom would hear you and sweep you away to his lair! He will make you sleep in a mausoleum and make love to you on a headstone in his graveyard!" Meg proclaimed. _Graveyard_! That child had evidently been into her mother's gin. She giggled and shrugged.

"All hesting aside, I _like_ hearing you. We all do. I really think this Phatnom would like it too," Meg said, a little more gently.

"And what would he care for me?" Christine asked, her voice rising. Erik could see the flush rising to her pale cheeks even from his hiding place. _Exactly, what _should_ I care?_ He asked himself irritably.

"Christine, please? I like it! I want to see this Phantom and I just _know_ that he would come down from the rafters and listen! Maybe he can even tell your father's angel to come for you!" Meg whined. Christine's face flushed furiously; this was obviously the last straw and a raw nerve.

"_Fine_! Then leave me alone or I'll box your ears!" Christine snapped. She launched into an aria that, with the passion of anger behind it, was unlike anything Erik had ever heard before. He had heard her sing in the past, but nothing like this. It stirred something in him, pulled at something. His breath caught, his hands shook. He stood, dumbfounded. She was untrained, her tone was weak in her high and low registers, and her breathing was wrong, but…the clarity and form was so perfect it was almost painful, once there was confidence behind it. The last note died away and Christine turned to Meg.

"I don't see anyone! So there!" she snarled, and stormed away. Erik stood for a moment. His mouth was dry and his heart pounded. An idea came to him. _He had to have her…and he knew exactly how to get her!_

He went back home to plan. This had to be done carefully, otherwise he risked discovery. Why the hell he was taking on this kind of risk for a girl he didn't like was unnerving…but that _voice_! The mere thought of it edged an almost _physical_ reaction out of him. Suddenly, the crashing realization hit him so hard he had to grab the edge of the couch. He pushed the thought away with a savagery he hadn't felt in himself since Persia. But the thought persisted. He was _in love_ with this girl's _voice_; perhaps not her herself, but her voice. But he was _smarter_ than this! He should abandon this foolishness right now and go back to living by himself in solitude, as he had for so many years. The girl was barely seventeen anyway, certainly no fare for a man in his late forties. Still, he found himself drawn to watch her rehearse with the other girls, standing quietly in the back, a wallflower, a cipher. And finally, she was alone. Alone with him, and now he could put his plan into action.

_"Christine…_" he whispered. Alone backstage, her head snapped up and she glanced around herself warily.

"Who's there? If this is a joke, it's an evil one! Show yourself!" she demanded in a shaky voice. From his place behind a false wall, Erik could smell her, the husky scent of sweat and flowers. Her eyes were a rich shade of midnight blue.

"It is no joke, child. I am the Angel of Music you have been awaiting. I have come to teach you to sing, dear child. Are you ready?" he asked, softly. He could see her tremble, her face torn between what she heard and what she knew should be real.

"Angel?" she whispered, her voice waivering.

"Your father sent me. I am here to make you sing like an angel!" he proclaimed. He saw her swallow hard and begin to tremble anew.

"Thank you Daddy!" she cried softly. Erik fought the urge to laugh in her face, to reveal himself and tear that unerring faith to shreds. But he did not. He could not even move, because, for the first time, he saw her smile.


	3. Touch

After the first lesson, Erik was in agony. _That girl_! With her pretty yellow hair and crystalline voice! She was killing him, taking him apart, bit by bit! His armor fell away, leaving him naked and vulnerable to the world, something he had sworn would never happen again.

Still, _that voice!_ He could not get it out of his head! Even in the first few hours, Christine was beginning to flourish under his tutelage, becoming the diva even Carlotta could never have been in her better days. Now that she had confidence, she would sing like an angel in the employ of a god Erik had long since dismissed. She was, at his urging, keeping herself a secret. He had a plan for her.

Over the next six months, Christine grew to amaze Erik. With training, her voice grew voice grew crystal clear and her tone absolutely transparent in its perfection. She had possibly the most astounding voice Erik had ever heard. Even just listening to her talk, as she sometimes did after a lesson, enchanted him. He found himself asking her about herself. He knew that her favorite color was blue, that she was phobically afraid of spiders, and that she liked the beach. He knew her mother had died when she was 6 and her father had been a great violinist, although, as she said, she wa sure he already knew that. Mama Valerius had become Chrisitne's guardian after Monsieur Daae had passed on, being a fan of his music. The old woman, however, was not prepared to constantly deal with an extremely depressed child and sent her into the Opera's Adolescent Program and Christine spent most of her time in the dorms of the Opera House and a few months out of the year at Valerius' home. He found himself feeling almost sorry for her. He was horrified at this.

As it was, Erik found himself increasingly obsessed with the girl's voice...as well as with the girl herself, a fact that irritated him to no end! He realized, most of the way through the second month of her lessons, he -to his horror- was falling in love with _her_, no longer just her voice. He, the vindictive, malicious Opera Ghost was falling in love! How disgusting! He was almost fifty years old, too old for this foolishness! Not to mention he felt like a pedophile! Still, Christine's absolute devotion to him and the charade he presented her was touching... Easily the love of his dark, affectionless life, she was charging headlong through all the thick barriers he had built around himself. He had the sudden feeling of a lobster being peeled out of its shell. He was being skinned alive, all for a stupid little child whose love he would never truly have for himself.

He was standing behind the mirror in the empty dressing room he had designated. She snuck there every night to sing and learn. He had driven her to tears some nights with his rough discipline and demands, but she never faltered, never decided to stop coming. Her unwavering faith was fascinating to him and a small, sadistic voice in his head wondered how far it could be pushed before it broke. Probably, before the whole affair with her was done, he'd find out. Even with rumors of the Phantom of the Opera running rampant through the chorus, she still whole-heartedly believed that he was the Angel her father had sent. It almost made him feel guilty. If she thought for a moment that her "Angel" was the same man, she did not say. Erik could tell, though, by the complete and utter devotion in her eyes, that the notion had not even crossed her stunted brain.

Every now and then, he would reward her by singing himself. Her eyes would glaze over in a rapture that Erik knew he would never cause with anything but his voice; her body would relax and she would smile. Her smile was beginning to affect him more and more, a fact that increasingly irked Erik. She never smiled around theother girls and he felt that this was something reserved specially for him. All his, no one elses. This was yet another thing that frightened him, the odd joy he found in her smile. He had never found such a reaction to a human expression before in himself. _First her voice, now her smile..._ Erik thought irritably. Still, horrified and frightened as he was, he could not stay away from her...

Now that the girl had some discipline and knowledge of using the talents she had been born with, she was more attractive than ever to him. Every night, he swore he would abandon the charade forever, proclaim she was ready to sing upon the stage and demand, in the name of God, that she do so, and then "fly away to Heaven" and never return. He knew that it would not be long before she had admirers once she finally had acclaim, and the thought of seeing her with another was unbearable! Suddenly, it came to him….she was devoted to him as her Angel. Could God not demand celibacy from priests and nuns? In so, could an Angel not demand it from a pupil?

"Christine, I worry about your soul with the admirers you will surely have when you reach the pinnacle of your career," he began one evening during their lesson. He saw the girl blush and her eyes drift to the floor. She was still a virgin, he knew; the other girls her age made fun of her and teased her, both to her face and behind her back, because she had not yet known a man's touch. And she would not!

"Angel, I am pure," she whispered simply.

"I know you are, Christine. But you must remain so, for no true artist can excel unless they shed all worldly bonds. You must love no one but me and your music!" he proclaimed. He nodded her head slowly.

"Yes, Angel, I understand. I will love no other but you!" she cried. He sighed. It was rather tasteless, he admitted, to allow no one else to have the girl if he could not. Still, he had survived his life a virgin, she could do so as well.

"Good. Now, let's begin warming up. I want you to do it on your own this time. Begin with your lower scale and work upwards as we've done before," he ordered. She began. Her lower register was her weakness at this point, a little too breathy. Still, the rest was flawless and Erik found himself leaning against the wall, moved by the sweetness of it. Christine would never be a belter, that much was certain, but her voice as light and sweet, suddenly reminding Erik of birds he had heard while travelling with the gypsies, of the crystals of the chandelier in the main auditorium. She finished her scales, and he asked her to sing the final song in Faust, with his voice accompanying her. She had been practicing without him, it seemed, for her voice was dizzyingly beautiful. Erik found he had to lean against the mirror and press his head against the cool glass to steady himself as she finished. He suddenly noticed she was not standing in the middle of the room, as she usually did, but was very close to the mirror, maybe a mere six inches away. Oh, it would be so easy to open the false mirror and pull her through, into his arms. His hand grazed the glass, to him, appearing to touch her face. As if she sensed his motion, and for a breath-stopping moment Erik thought she had, she placed one tiny hand against the glass.

"Angel?" she breathed. Erik placed his hand over hers; the glass between their palms warmed and for a moment, he imagined he was actually touching her.

"Yes, Christine?" he answered, fighting to keep his voice steady. Her lips trembled, as if she was going to say something, but then she did not. She dropped her hand away and backed up from the mirror. Her eyes were closed and she seemed…ashamed?

"I think that is enough for this evening. Very well-done, my girl," he whispered. She smiled and Erik was almost knocked to his knees. She crossed herself, as she always did, and left the room. Erik swallowed and staggered down his passageway. He knew in the back of his mind he should probably end this entire farce right now -or shouldn't have begun it to begin with. Still, her unconditional love, even if it was through false pretenses, was almost impossible to pass up. That, and he knew that revealing himself now would most likely cause irreparable damage to her mind. Someday she may be ready for that, but not now...not now. No, he couldn't stop now. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop. He _wanted_ her. He _had_ her, if only through the cold glass of the mirror.


	4. Work

That idiot Buquet! He'd seen him, seen him _without the mask_! What's worse, he'd talked about him to the stupid little petit rats of the ballet! That imbecile! Erik had left the meddling bastard alone for the meantime, but no more! Still, Buquet would have to wait- Christine was his all-consuming concern now. There was a gala coming up, where all the great composers would showcase their works. He planned for her to be on that stage no matter what! In _Faust_ by Gounod, a most excellent- and appropriate- venue for her voice, he had decided. For, Erik knew, and he surmised in some space in the back of her mind, Christine knew too, that she had essentially already sold her soul to him.

"Oh, Angel! Have you heard? Carlotta is ill! So ill she will not perform! They've asked me to replace her! Oh, can you believe it?" Christine gasped as she rushed into her next lesson.

"I believe it, child, because I knew your voice would catch their attention eventually." Erik answered. A carefully written note strongly _suggested_ to Carlotta that she would be ill. The paper had been laced with a mild poison, for Erik knew she was no good at acting. He had also _suggested_ to the managers that Christine be the new understudy.

"Oh, there is more! I was frightened I would lose this chance when I heard that Monsieurs Debienne and Poligny were leaving!" she added, breathlessly. _They're what?_ "Then, I met the two new managers and they said it was alright if I sing because Carlotta was ill and wouldn't be able to perform. I don't think they've really worked much in theater before. Still, they seem very nice. They've advanced Sorelli and Jammes to the front of the ballet line and commended Mme Giry and Meg Giry on their marvelous work! They say I seem a dear girl and look forward to seeing me sing." The girl continued to prattle on, but Erik barely heard her. New managers? How could they do this to him? Erik gritted his teeth.

"Really? Well, I have faith that you will astound these new managers. Now, we have work ahead of us in preparation for the gala," he told her. Suddenly Christine's face paled.

"Oh, my! Angel, I have parts in nearly everything! I have a single day!" she gasped.

"That's why we will work on it. You will triumph, my child, I promise you." he reassured her. He ground his teeth. He was furious. Those stupid, incompetent idiots! Retiring? Selling? They couldn't do this to him! Damn it! And that Sorelli and Carlotta and that little half-starved runt Jammes? They'd proven to have no actual taste, talent, or value. He'd have to fix all this. With a sigh, Erik continued Christine's lesson, hearing the confidence creep back into that gorgeous voice, her lovely tones relaxing him. He'd have to go write those new managers. He'd be nice _this time_.

Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin- they were morons! They'd sold Box 5 for the gala! In spite of Mme Giry's protest that "the ghost" would be displeased, they sold _his_ box! Reserved it out for some idiot and his wife! A miscellaneous idiot with a good amount of money! How insulting! If they were going to reserve his box for someone other than him, it should have at least been someone important! _This is why I abandoned the human race!_ Erik thought irritably. _Dear __Mr__ Managers__I am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must be so very busy, __renewing important engagements, signing fresh ones and generally displaying __your excellent taste...__Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to La __Carlotta, who sings like a squirt and who ought never to have been allowed to __leave the Ambassadors and the Cafe __Jacquin__; nor to La __Sorelli__, who owes __most of her success to the coach-builders; nor to Little __Jammes__, who dances __like a calf in a field.__Also, I cannot end this letter without telling you how disagreeably __surprised I have been to hear, on arriving at the Opera, that my box had __been sold!__I did not protest, first, because I dislike scandal and, second, because I __thought that your predecessors, MM __Debienne__ and __Poligny__, who were always __charming to me, had neglected, before leaving, to mention my little fads to __you.__Your must humble and obedient servant__O.G_

That was nicer than he was originally going to be. He would have been more threatening, but he didn't know if it was going to be necessary with these two yet. Besides, he had more important things on his mind. Like getting his damned box back!

After a few threatening words, those two dolts had left the box. Disembodied voices did tend to scare people. Erik went to sit in his box, as he always did, to find that Mme Giry had indeed left a program for him on the ledge as he always asked. He'd send for a nice box of English sweets for her, his usual payment. And, since she'd been such a good assistant and stood up to him to these two new impressively stupid managers, he'd make it a larger box.


	5. Punishment

Mme Giry was one of the few people Erik found truly tolerable. Even though she had been frightened just a little when he first required her help, she had been very civil and never asked questions. He had done the dear woman a favor of giving her old heart much joy in telling her that her little Meg –the one with the massive imagination- would one day be Empress… he already knew that a young Baron had been admiring the girl, but Empress sounded more impressive. Since then, she had been a quite useful and faithful helper. He always was sure to tip her, usually two francs, but today was a special day and Erik felt over confident. So along with the box of candy, he left her an extra three francs on the ledge of the box. He sat back, his chair pushed to the shadows, and let the music wash over him.

The performance was more than Erik could have hoped for, really –for once- a surprisingly enjoyable occasion! He had bought a present for Christine, a pretty little fan- surely she would not know who sent it and he trusted Mme Giry not to betray his secret. He had also bought flowers. As much as Erik disliked being out in the world, he wasn't a complete hermit, to his dismay. He had endeavored to make a special trip out to a florist and to a small lady's shop around the corner. As long as he kept up the notion that he was an aristocrat having an inappropriate affair, no one asked questions. The tidy little salary that the former managers had paid him made it possible for him to toss a little money about when needed to keep up the disagreeable façade.

And his Christine shone, like a searing star amongst the dark of the stage. Yes, _his_ Christine. He knew she was his now and knew damn well she would never do anything to displease him. And the performance proved it. She was gorgeous! Erik felt himself wiping tears from his eyes as she finished. Perfect! His little angel! Wait…what was she looking at? Her eyes were locked to a box almost directly across from him. The young viscount de Chagny and his brother; Erik was familiar with them, as the older…Phillipe was his name, he spent wholly too much time with Sorelli. Erik thought that this was probably the reason her dancing had begun to suffer. Phillipe De Chagny had taken over the family's vast holdings since their parents' deaths, including guardianship of his three younger siblings, two sisters and the little brother. The younger was closer to Christine's age. Erik couldn't really remember the boy's name, but he noticed how the young man was enraptured with his Christine. She's _mine_, you mindless little fop! Erik felt himself growing warm with rage. That little prig was imposing! Not only that, Christine seemed almost receptive!

"Oh no, you don't, dear boy! I don't think you want to mess with that girl!" Erik snarled under his breath. Grinding his teeth in fury, he stood abruptly and left the box, forgetting the pretty fan he had bought for his Christine, forgetting the flowers. He stomped through the back passages of the Opera House, behind her mirror. Of course, the stupid boy wasn't all to blame. Christine shared part of the blame too. He hated to have to punish the girl but she had to _learn_. No discipline, just as he had thought in the beginning! In love as he was, that did not spare her from needing to have a brain in her head! And he was going to punish her!

His Christine, overwrought by the enormity of her success, was brought to her dressing room in a faint, accompanied by a doctor and a young maid. The idiot boy followed, being chided gently by his brother that the poor girl was not well and should be left alone. _Yes, you little snot, it'll be better for everyone, Christine very much included, if you go away now!_ Erik thought to himself. Christine's eyes fluttered open and she stared at the young man in shock.

"Oh! Monsieur, who are you?" she gasped.

"Oh, why Christine Daae, I am the little boy who ran into the sea to fetch your scarf so many years ago!" the young man announced happily. Christine glanced at the doctor and, Erik saw, a quick glance at the mirror. She began to laugh heartily. Perhaps there is hope, if she finds him funny to believe he would grab her attentions by announcing a childhood memory. Ha! Christine may be stupid, but she was not stupid enough for that!

"Oh, Raoul! Yes, I remember!" she chuckled. "How lovely to see you!" The young man crumbled before Erik's eyes. The sight was so satisfying Erik found himself grinning beneath his mask. _Oh, yes, young man, she knows what's good for her and she loves me more than she would ever love you!_

"Be a dear, Raoul, do go away so I may rest! I have a beastly headache!" Christine continued, passing a tiny hand over her eyes. Hurt flashed in the boy's eyes, visible even to Erik. Erik couldn't help but giggle in glee. The young man's pain at the rejection of his lady love was delicious!

"Well, if you find me funny, I shall go away! I'm sorry to have disturbed you," he mumbled. He sighed deeply and left. Erik saw Christine watching him go. She was taking too much interest in him. As much as she was hiding it, and hiding it well, he knew that she was more interested than she let on. He waited until she sent the doctor and the maid from the room, saying she wished to sleep. She immediately stood and ran to the mirror, a smile of excitement painted on her face.

"Oh, Angel, did you see it? I was amazing!" she gasped, clasping her hands in front of her in delight. She was so beautiful to be so happy. Erik didn't want to punish her. But she had swayed and he had to set her on the right path.

"Yes, Christine, that was a magnificent triumph! However, there was one flaw," he replied icily. She froze, the smile sliding off her face.

"Angel?" she whispered, her voice shaking. She obviously knew what had displeased him.

"The young man?" he continued. She immediately began to shake.

"Oh, no, Angel, he's just a friend! An old childhood friend who I shouldn't like to see again!" she cried desperately. He could hear panic beginning to edge into her voice.

"You tried to act unhappy to see him, but do you not know that I know everything? God lets me know!" he cried, his voice rising.

"No! I was certainly not! You saw what a nuisance he made of himself! Oh, Angel, I sing only for you! Only you!" she squeaked, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Erik felt his heart tug. He was ready to forgive her…he shook himself. _No!_ She had to be taught to be a good girl and not defy him!

"Christine, you made a vow to be pure. From your attention to the young man tonight, I do not believe you are going to keep that vow." His voice was low, ominous, and frightening. He was vengeance, he was rage, he was fury itself! He saw her tremble anew, her face paling and her eyes overflowing with tears.

"Angel, please, it meant nothing. I was trying to figure out where I had seen him before! Oh, please don't go!" She fell to her knees in front of the mirror, her hands reaching out to it…to _him_. He almost reached out to her, to take her through the mirror. Perhaps if she was alone with him, she would behave herself. Erik waved the dream away. This child would not ever behave herself, just as she would never be alone with him. He stood in silence for a moment. When she received no answer, she panicked, throwing herself at the mirror.

"Angel! Please don't go! Angel!" she cried over and over. Erik sighed. He could not watch the girl being ripped apart from what he had done to her. It was his fault she was like this and now he saw the extend of the damage he had done. No, it was to be a happy night. This should have been the night of her young life. He sighed.

"Do you love me Christine?" he asked very quietly.

"Oh, Angel! Yes! Yes! I love you! I love only you!" she whimpered.

"Then you are forgiven. Don't let it happen again, and I will forgive you." As he spoke, he began to play his violin. Her eyes went serene and she relaxed against the mirror, her body pressing against the glass.

"Are you tired, child?" he asked.

"Yes, Angel, I am," she whispered against the glass.

"Take yourself to bed then. You were wonderful. I'm sure even God in Heaven and all his angels weep for the beauty of your voice," Erik murmured. He played a few more bars and tapered off. She sighed in relief and slowly picked herself up off the floor, gathered her jacket and a veil to hide her tears and exhaustion, and left the room. A few moments after she left, the young man was back.

"I know you're in here! I shall kill you for making her weep so!" he cried heroically. Erik scoffed quietly and gathered his violin. _Search all you want and threaten how you wish, little Raoul, __but you shan't find me!_ The man had obviously heard his tirade against the poor child. Well, it _was_ all his fault. Too bad he wasn't going to learn as quickly as Christine. Erik supposed if this went much further, he would have to kill the boy. He was quite tempted to do so now, but he figured he would let the young man alone for now. This was _Erik's_ night of triumph and that little snot wasn't going to ruin it!


	6. Home

Erik's mood was not improved as he banged into Joseph Buquet in the wings.

"Ho, ho! It's the ghostie! You're a must more handsome fellow with the mask on!" the man chuckled in a cloud of inebriation and idiocy. Erik shoved him aside. He was not in the mood for this!

"Out of my way, drunkard!" he snarled.

"Ooh! Tough one aint ya? I tells ya what then, I'll tell everyone I see I met the famous opera ghost now!" Buquet continued, giggling. Erik turned around. He_ really_ didn't feel like dealing with this now! Buquet grabbed Erik's shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he asked. His breath was so bad Erik felt drunk just standing next to him. He shoved Buquet away, harder this time. Buquet lunged at him. Erik hadn't expected an agile attack from the drunk and Buquet's fist smashed into the side of his head. Stars flashed before his eyes and they both crashed to the floor.

"I caught the Opera Ghost!" Buquet announced grandly and a little louder than Erik would have liked. He swept Buquet's legs out from under him and dove on top of him. Buquet kicked out, but missed and Erik had the Punjab lasso out, swinging it around Buquet's neck. He yanked the rope taut and Buquet gagged harshly.

"No one catches me!" Erik growled as he yanked harder.

"Except that little Christine! She got you good!" Buquet gasped. Erik bared his teeth and yanked the rope so viciously Buquet's neck snapped. The man flopped like a fish, jittering around the floorboards. Erik sighed. That hadn't been a very good idea, but the man _had_ attacked him first. Now Erik had to figure out what to do with him. He looked around. Well, he _could_ just hang him up like a set decoration in one of the lower levels. It would look just like a suicide as long as he did it soon. He grabbed the rope and dragged the corpse down to the third cellar, where a few unused sets and props were kept. There was a little farmhouse set and a backdrop of scenery. It took a little work, but now Buquet was neatly hung up like a turkey and ready for spectacular discovery. Erik worked a knot out of his shoulders, cracked his neck and prepared to plan Christine's next triumph.

He made sure she knew of his displeasure at the young man for the next few lessons. He wouldn't speak to her unless he needed to and his silence was obviously bothering her. Her voice was beginning to go dull again, his neglect roughing off the sparkle. By the fourth lessons in silence, Erik sighed. He admitted he couldn't let this continue for either of them. He requested _Faust_ from her, and began to sing in harmony with her. As she heard him, her voice became clearer, more spectacular. She was reaching heights he had never known possible before. It made his head spin, his heart ache, and his knees weak. Erik found himself needing to open the mirror and pull her inside…Just to hold her, to touch her… Suddenly, he opened his eyes and she was there, her hands pressed to the mirror. In only a few seconds, she was in his arms. Her body was so warm against his, feather-light and delicate. Christine's eyes widened in fear and she opened her mouth to scream. Now, erik couldn't allow that so he clapped a hand over her mouth. She, of course, fainted immediately from shock. That was ok, he didn't mind carrying her. It gave him more time to be close to her. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the scent of her, then gathered her tiny body up into his arms and began down to his home. Oh, he knew this was a really bad idea, but he figured he would figure it all out once she was safely at home with him, where she was going to stay…forever.

He carried her down to the house beneath the Opera. She was so tiny, so delicate, she felt like a little doll in his arms, a little dead doll. He did actually check her twice to make sure she was alive, so still she lay in his hands. He stopped by water and splashed some cool water on her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open for a few moments, long enough for him to give her a few drops of brandy to keep her calm. It just wouldn't do to have her injure herself in panic. While Erik usually didn't drink, he still kept a flask of the stuff with him, more as a habit. This just prove that one just didn't know what one needed until it was needed!

She began to come to a little more, but remained calm and cooperative when he laid her on the back of the horse he had stolen. Cesar, the beautiful white horse, was the only one worthy of his Christine. The horse had been a little difficult to acquire and he had done so more because he liked the creature than a plan to carry Christine. Erik had actually stolen him some months before; he surrounded himself with things of beauty and had thought the horse a fine specimen. Now the noble animal would bear his Christine home with him. She rode, her head rested on his shoulder and he thought he would burst from joy, although it was in the back of his mind that the brandy might have more than a little to do with her docility.

His Christine remained calm even as he gently lifted her down from Cesar's back and laid her in the boat, although she was a little more alert by now. Erik led Cesar to his hidden stable, which he had built himself. It was a little way from the water, but he was rather sure Christine wouldn't move. The horse secured and fed, Erik returned to his Christine. She was sitting up on her own, glancing around her, but she did not look frightened. This was good, for he had been worried he might have to drug her further or even restrain her if she grew frightened enough to fight him. The lake was rather formidable and he didn't want her getting wet and catching cold, chilly as the cellars were these days! Or –heaven forbid!- actually jumping out of the boat. But no, she was calm and quiet the whole way across the lake to his house. He simply could not take his eyes off her. Now she was his! His alone! No stupid little fop was going to steal her away; she would be safe with him, in his house, forever! Together they slid over the silent water and at once, Erik imagined they were rowing on the Seine on a romantic afternoon, just like normal couples! He would make her unbelievably happy! She would forget that silly little nobleman, she would forget to mourn the death of her father! He marveled at the fact that he had once hated this girl so, found her remarkably irritating, but now all he could think about was making her his and his alone!

The boatride was over too soon! As Erik laid the pole down and pulled the boat ashore, he noticed Christine staring at him with a clarity that worried him a touch. She was getting clear again, but he knew he could overpower her if needed. He swiftly scooped her up into his arms and she gave a squeal of shock. He shouldered the secret door open and set her down on the couch in the drawing room of his home. She had fainted again. Annoyed, Erik felt some of his old feelings towards her resurface, but shoved them aside. He knew, in his limited experience with women, that women tended to faint when their senses were overtaxed, most likely because of the damned corsets they worse. Idiocy, utter idiocy!

He had bought some flowers for her and had meant to leave them in her dressing room, but circumstances had prevented that. So he arranged them around her so she would see them when she awoke. He knew she liked flowers and had made an effort to choose the prettiest ones.

Christine awoke some time later, leaping to her feet in a way that made Erik worry she might fall and hurt herself. She glanced around at the flowers and Erik immediately felt very foolish. When he moved, Christine backed away, her eyes beginning to dart in fear. He noticed her begin to tremble and immediately reached a hand out to her.

"It's alright, Christine, dear. I won't hurt you," he cooed. Recognition flashed in her eyes and something inside her seemed to crumble. With a shriek, she threw herself at him, her hands scrabbling for the mask. She just didn't understand anything, poor dim-witted girl! He gently took her wrists and forced her to sit back on the couch.

"Christine, I'm sorry for lying to you, but you must know that I meant only to train your voice to sing as angels do! I did this because I love you!" he proclaimed grandly. Perhaps that was too much too soon. She burst into noisy tears and tried to shove him away again. He knelt before her to comfort her, but she pushed him away harder.

"I am no angel, I admit it. My name is Erik. I'm a man just like any other. I'm so sorry I hurt you!" he begged of her. A balled fist slammed into the side of his head. No, this approach was obviously not working. Christine was a tiny girl, so the blow did not hurt much. With a sigh he gently shoved her back to the couch and began to sing. She froze, trying to resist his voice. But he knew she wouldn't last long, for his voice was still the voice of her Angel. Her eyes slid closed and she nodded off. He stood there, taking a moment to take in her presence in the house. Then he gently swung her back up into his arms and carried her to what he now thought of as her bedroom. He sighed. He'd have to lock her in. He would, at least, leave her a note, so she wouldn't be frightened spending time alone.

_My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better __nor__ more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are alone, at present, in this home which is yours. I am going out shipping to fetch you all the things that you can need._

Regrettably, the only ink he had been able to find in the house was the blood-red ink he used for his compositions and the manager's notes. That may scare her a bit, but the note was genteel enough. He truly hated to lock her in her room while he was gone, but he wanted to be the one to give her the grand tour. Besides, it gave him time to prepare her room for her arrival! He didn't know how much time he really had and he couldn't force her to drink any more brandy to keep her sedated, so he immediately set about the Opera House, stealing what he needed. He would make sure his Christine had a proper homecoming, as befitted the love of his life! Not that anyone would miss any of these things anyway and what did it matter? It was for Christine and when it came to that, nothing else really mattered! As he rushed about, it occurred to him that he had finally gone utterly barking mad. Still, what did _that_ matter? He was _enjoying_ himself, and certainly one who was completely mad wouldn't enjoy it, would they? Of course not! He had Christine all to himself now and he would set himself at making her the happiest woman in the world!

He returned with an armload of packages for her. He tapped on the wall a few times and entered into her room. She was already awake and was coming out of the bathroom as he entered, an angry glare set on her beautiful features.

"I was a fool to let you play with my mind like that, Erik! Now take off that mask!" she demanded furiously as he began laying out the boxes on the bed. He had acquired her hairbrushes, a few dresses, and some jewelry for her. He hadn't been able to find her gloves, which he knew she would need in the cool air, so he had stolen some from another dressing room. He didn't tell her this.

"_Talk_ to me, Erik!" she growled. He ignored her. She wouldn't come close to him, he noticed. Probably she was just a little nervous meeting him. The circumstances were, admittedly, less than desirable.

"Take off the mask right this minute! If you are an honest man, you should not need a mask! Take it off, you fiend!" she shouted.

"You'll never see Erik's face," he muttered softly. She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked.

"I hate you!" she muttered.

"Oh, now let's not be childish, dear Christine," he chided. "Look at you. You have not finished dressing and it is already afternoon. Be a good dear and finish getting dressed properly."He found her watch among the parcels on the bed, wound it, set it, and handed it to her.

"I'm going to go make lunch. Please be in the dining room in a half hour, my sweet?" She shoved him out of the room and slammed the door in his face. Well, it wasn't the best of beginnings, but he was sure that she would warm to him. She may not be a bright girl, but he was sure she knew what was good for her.


	7. Happiness

She refused to come out of her room and indeed had locked herself in the bathroom. Thankfully, there was really nothing in there that she could hurt herself with, although Erik seriously doubted the girl had the mind to actually injure herself. He made a little cold-chicken lunch with some prawns and tokay for the two of them and patiently waiting until she was ready to come out. When she finally did, she seemed at least refreshed, if still wary of him. 

"Hello Christine. Are you ready for lunch?" he asked. She turned her head away, but he knew she was glaring at him. He sighed. She was being stubborn, difficult, like a petulant child. 

"Come, come now, you can't starve yourself. If you don't come and eat, I'll be compelled to force you to." The threat obviously made her think twice. Good girl. She followed him to the modest dining room, her eyes darting about her all the while, and sat in the place he indicated.

"I do love you, Christine. Make no doubt about that. But I will not speak of love unless you allow me to. If you like, we can talk of other things. I will tell you stories, and continue our lessons for the rest of the time you are here," he told her. She frowned.

"And how long am I to be here, Erik?" she asked, pronouncing his name as if it were a profanity. 

"Five days," he replied, "Then you will be free, but I wanted a chance, a chance to woo you. If, after those five days, you do not desire to come back home to me, I will leave you alone. But I do wish that you consider coming back to me." She began to tremble. Perhaps he had overdone it? Too much too soon again? He indicated that she should eat something and she glanced at the food without much interest. She did mechanically eat a few of the prawns and some of the chicken and nearly the whole glass of wine. She reached for the bottle, but he moved it out of her gasp.

"Easy, dearest Christine, you will be sick," he chided gently. She sat completely still for a moment, picking at her food.

"Erik, where…well, where were you born?" she asked hesitantly, obviously trying to make conversation. 

"A small town outside of Rouen, although I don't think of it as home," he said.

"Oh! I thought with the name Erik-"

"No, I came across my name by accident. I don't think I came from anywhere, really," he answered. She stared at her food, nibbling on more chicken and trying very hard not to look at him at all. Erik wished he could eat with her, just like a normal husband and wife, but that would mean removing his mask to free his mouth and he didn't think she was quite ready for that yet. When he figured she was done, he stood and offered her his hand.

"I'll show you around. If this is going to be your house, you should know your way around, dear," he said. She touched his hands, for the first time without his gloves. With a shriek, she yanked her hand back, shuddering at his touch. With a twinge, he realized he had forgotten how cold and alien his touch felt.

"Forgive me!" he groaned in despair. He saw something cross her features, sorrow, pity? She shook herself and began to obediently follow him. He crossed the small hallway to his bedroom and pushed the door open. 

"This is where I sleep," he told her. Her features paled and her eyes grew to the size of saucers and Erik feared she might faint again. He didn't mine touching her, but it _was_ rather irritating. But, though she swayed on her feet, she did not faint. Her eyes swept the funeral hangings, the funeral music painted on the walls, the funeral canopy, and the open coffin.

"It is strange, I admit, but quite comfortable when you get right down to it. One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity," he told her. She turned her head away with such violence it rocked her on her feet again. Well, it had been a little odd and he understood her reaction. As she did, she saw the organ that took up almost the entire wall before her on the other side of the room. She stepped forward, entrance by the sight. His masterpiece lay on the stand. She touched it, running her fingers over the notes as if she could hear them with a touch. 

"_Don Juan Triumphant_. I compose sometimes," he said a little modestly. 

"Play me something from it?" she asked. He shook his head and led her from the room back to the sitting room. He sat down at the smaller piano.

"No, Christine. We can sing something else, but _Don Juan…Don Juan _burns. You shall never hear it, dear, I'm sorry," he said sadly. "You see, there is music so terrible in its power that it actually breaks the body as it breaks the heart. If you were to hear it, you would lose all your pretty coloring and look old before your time. I wouldn't like that. Please pick something else, Christine." Her name came out a little harsher than he 

had intended, but at least she understood how sensitive he was about his music. She stared at him oddly for a moment before choosing _Othello_. As they began to duet, he heard something unusual in her voice. It quivered in fear, and he could see her trembling beside him as he played. He wished he could turn to her and take her in his arms and promise her there was nothing to fear, but the music was too beautiful to interrupt. Their voices soared together, entwining as he knew their bodies never would, music dancing through the air, so beautiful and powerful he felt he could almost see it. Yes, she was here with him and they were singing together, as if they were a normal couple who enjoyed each other's company and sand because they liked being together. She would love him and they would spend eternity in love and music together. A sudden rush of cold air swept across his face and he turned. A sudden piercing scream hit him in the face like a punch. _The mask!_ She was gripping it in her little hands, backing away in terror. He stood abruptly, reaching for her. _It had been so perfect…and now he was going to have to kill her_. 


	8. Unmasked

She slid back against the wall, her mouth open, although she was not screaming anymore. He grabbed her shoulders with such force she squealed in pain.

"Look! If you wanted to see look, you little bitch!" he screamed. She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her hair and forced her face close to his. She tried to pull away, but he twisted his hands in harder. He heard her neck creak with the effort and she whimpered in agony.

"_Stop, stop_!"she screamed. He released her hair and grabbed her arms, and shook her until her teeth rattled, shook her so hard her head slammed roughly into the wall.

"You weren't content just to listen? You had to see, didn't you? Curiosity killed the cat and now it seems it will kill you too! Look, Christine! I am quite handsome, yes? _Look at me_!" She struggled to try to get away and he swung her around and threw her bodily to the floor. Stunned, she tried to curl up to escape him. He grabbed her hands and pressed them to his face. She shrieked again and tried to pull away, but he pinned her body against the wall with his. 

"Do you perhaps think this is another mask? You must, for you have not fainted in fear yet, which you are so good at doing, Christine! Try to pull this one off! Try! Try!" He tore his skin with her nails. She kicked at his legs and he grabbed her shoulders and squeezed as she struggled. He heard bones creak and Christine's startled cry as he lifted her easily off the ground.

"I love you! Yes, yes, see! A dead man loves you! And now you can never leave! I will kill you myself for seeing me!" he bellowed. She tried to beat at him with her little, so-ineffectual hands, his blood staining her skin. With a roar of anguish, he slammed her into the wall so hard her breath whooshed from her lungs. Again. He heard her head strike the wall and she slumped in his hands, semiconscious. He considered strangling her, bludgeoning her to death, or merely throwing her out into the lake. He could certainly break her neck with a simple little flick of his wrist. She was so tiny it would be nothing at all… then, as he reached for her, to drag the life out of her small body, she stirred.

"Erik…Erik, I'm sorry," she mumbled before her eyes fluttered shut. She was delirious. She didn't mean what she said. Still, he couldn't do it. Weak! Erik cursed himself in his moment of emotional frailty and merely let one of his hands brush over her neck. With a sigh, he picked her up by her arms and dropped her roughly to the couch. She squeaked as her bruised back and head hit the cushions, but did not say anything else, and her eyes snapped open. He collapsed to his knees before her.

"Why did you have to see? My mother hated me and my father left us. So she would not see me, my mother made me a mask and made me wear it. Now you shall hate me too!" he moaned. He dragged himself on the floor, the burden of his sorrow to great to allow him to his feet. He crawled to the organ and began to play his masterpiece, not caring any longer if she heard. He thought he might very well die of shame! That stupid, stupid girl had removed his last strands of dignity. He had tried to be nice to her, but no, she had to be inquisitive and stupid, never satisfied! After a few moments of playing he heard her behind him. He stood up, but didn't turn to face her. If he saw that look of terror on her face again, he might very well kill her.

"Erik, look at me," she murmured. 

"No, Christine, I think you've had enough of me," he replied. She paused a moment and then he felt her hands on his arm.

"Please, show me your face and do not fear that I look upon it. You are so unhappy and lonely, and I know what that is like. Please? I know you love me and I want to take care of you. If I weep when I see you it is because I am thinking of the horror your life must have been and how wonderful your genius has become in spite of it!" For a moment, Erik couldn't believe what he heard. Then that horrible weakness overtook him. If she could even try to understand and love him, wasn't that enough? Before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees before her and kissed the hem of her dress. He noticed she had closed her eyes out of the corner of his vision, but ignored it. _She was trying_. If she could merely try, he would accept her efforts. It was more than anyone else had ever done!


	9. Hope

She threw his mask in the fire. Of course, he had spares, but it was the gesture. He could tell she was trying very hard, sometimes not succeeding, to cope with his hideousness. He admitted that he kept trying to catch her attention, like a little child petulantly and stubbornly trying to keep the attention of a parent. He cared for her like no other in his life. He gave her little potions to help with the concussion he had given her, apologizing profusely the entire time. At least it hadn't been as severe as it could have been. The bruises on her arms and hands were beginning to fade too. For two weeks, they spent like this and he became her unwavering slave. Anything she could possibly ask for, and even some things she didn't, was laid at her feet. They sang together, sat and told stories to each other, and she even _smiled_ sometimes. He was very careful not to touch her, though, as if touching her would destroy the fragile little dreamery he had built up around them both. Perhaps it would have.

When she was asleep, though, he would sit for hours and curse himself for his weakness around her! He was supposed to be the one in control, not a pitiful dog begging favor from a master! But so he was. She seemed to be relaxing around him, grown used to him. She didn't even shudder and shut her eyes when she saw him anymore. He took her for boatrides on the lake, this time with her wide awake and looking around at the pitch black emptiness in wonder.

"Are we the only people left in the world, Erik?" she wondered aloud in the boat.

"Not really. It sometimes seems that way down here, doesn't it?" he answered. She shrugged a bit.

"It must be lonely," she said, quietly.

"I came down here _because_ it was lonely, Christine. A man such as I…has difficulties with crowds. I like my limbs unbroken." She glanced up at him at this and for a moment, he thought she might cry.

"Erik, it's been very hard for you, hasn't it?" she whispered. He sighed deeply.

"Yes, it has, but it's so much better now that I have you! You've saved me, even for this little time, Christine. That is why I love you so much," he told her.

"Oh, Erik…" she whispered, and he heard her voice crack with a sob. She said nothing else until they got back to the house.

"I've decided, Christine, that we should have a little outing tomorrow evening," he announced as they took their cloaks off.

"An outing?" she asked, dumbly.

"Yes, we shall go for a carriage ride in the Bois! I'll even pack a little picnic for us. I think you've been missing the fresh air, yes?" he said. She was taken so aback by this she staggered in shock.

"The Bois? _Outside_?" she gasped.

"I _do_ go out from time to time, my dear girl," he said, a hint of cynicism working its way into his voice. She immediately pursed her lips and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I didn't mean it like that. It's just…we've spent all our time here," she stammered.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've kept you here for too long and I should not have. I will take you to the surface, we will have our carriage ride, and, if this outing goes well, tomorrow I shall drop you off at your dorm," he said. This time, she actually had to grip the wall to keep from toppling over. Erik fought the urge to roll his eyes. Did the girl have no constitution?

"Erik…I would…I would love to spend time with you at the Bois!" she exclaimed suddenly, rewarding him with a smile that made his heart want to burst. He smiled back. She passed by him towards the piano and _gave the tips of his fingers a little squeeze_.

"Erik, you've made me very happy," she said. Erik was surprised he didn't faint away from joy.

The next day passed with a sort of odd anticipation. He didn't want to let her go, but he certainly didn't want to keep her against her will, which –as comfortable as she had become with him- he knew it was. She was obviously looking forwards to being let go, which hurt his feelings a little, but he tried to ignore it. It was just that she had been cooped up for so long, he told himself. He did have a marvelous idea to use to check on her, though! Thanks to the managers for being idiots and liking the frilly parties as they did.

"Christine, there is going to be a Masquerade Ball in two days," he told her. She eyes flew up from the book she'd been reading. Her eyes immediately dropped to the box he held in his arms.

"Already? I've been here for _two weeks_?" she exclaimed. She didn't seem exactly displeased, but it seemed she was merely shocked by how much time had elapsed.

"Yes, I apologize. Time can get lost down here. But I have bought you a costume for the Ball and I hope you will wear it," he explained, opening the box for her so she could see. It was a sweet, simple black gown with white trim and a little domino mask. She smiled at it.

"It's lovely!" she said. She turned to face him and he suddenly, with odd shock, noticed how her countenance had changed. She was much paler than she had been before and dark circles shadowed under her eyes.

"Are you well, Christine?" he asked. She suddenly noticed that he meant her complexion and stepped back, covering her face.

"Oh, yes, Erik, dear, pay no mind!" she replied a bit too quickly, fleeing to her room. He followed her in concern.

"Christine, what is wrong?" he asked, grabbing the door before she could shut it. She gave him a sad smile over her shoulder.

"Oh, it's just the air down here, I have trouble sleeping in the chill is all, Erik," she said, waving it off. He frowned. She was _lying_. He almost grabbed her and shook her, but decided against it. While shaking the truth out of her as if she was a naughty child was the easiest way to get it, he surmised she'd be a little cross with him if he tried it. He'd leave her be for now.

She was very quiet in the carriage. The moonlight made the odd pallor of her features even starker and he began to worry about her. With a shock, he realized why she hadn't been sleeping. Like an idiot, he hadn't thought about her and played his Opera at all hours. That would keep anyone up, but he knew she wouldn't sleep afterwards. The music was too poignant, too emotional, too…awful… He stared at her, the fact that she hadn't said anything touching him deeply. She raised her head from where it rested on the side of the window and smiled at him. It was the reassuring smile sick people give their friends when they are asked how they feel.

"Christine, I am sorry," he told her. She frowned before realizing what he spoke of.

"Oh, Erik, I'm alright!" she insisted.

"Do not lie to me, Christine. I don't like it when you lie," he said. Christine stiffened a little at his tone.

"Erik, it's not your fault. I understand that you aren't used to having anyone in the house and you forget," she answered, her tone very careful, "And I can quite easily snuggle further under the covers and it doesn't bother me! I am beginning to very much like your opera. It just took some getting used to." The wasn't the answer Erik expected. Not by a long shot.

"You've _gotten used_ to me?" he asked. She gave him a smile and sat back, relaxing in the night air.

"Yes, Erik. Don't underestimate yourself- it _is_ possible to get used to you, you know," she said coquettishly.

"Oh is it?" he asked. She shurgged and settled back in her seat. She didn't answer him, but suddenly he had hope, cursed, ugly, awful hope, that she would someday learn to 'get used' enough to him to love him.

She was quite quiet through the next day. Particularly after this latest "development", he was more reluctant than ever to let her go. He considered not letting her go at all, but decided he had to. He had, after all, made her a promise and he knew that he should keep it. He needed to build her trust. And, disgustingly enough, he could not say no to that smile.

Through the next day, as they read together and ate lunch, he noticed how, quiet as she could sometimes be in the house, she looked pensive, almost meditative. He also caughter her staring at him for long periods, although she would turn her head once she saw he noticed. He surmised that she was simply proccupied with the promise of freedom. He wasn't sure if this broike his heart or filled it with rage.

As the carriage carried them to the Bois, she was very quiet, sitting across from him and staring out the window. When he finally tried to strike up a conversation she stared at him so hard it made him uncomfortable. He had asked about other times she'd been there, but she did not answer him. She said nothing for a long time.

"Erik, what happened to you?" she asked suddenlly. He blinked. Other than the stunted conversation at that first dinner, she had never asked him anything about himself.

"How do you mean?" he asked. She motioned to his face.

"I was born like this," he answered quietly. As talkative as he usually liked to be around her, this was something he didn't want to discuss. But he didn't see anything other than softness in her eyes. He swallowed.

"My mother stuck me in a mask and hated me. I don't know what happened to my father. I ran away," he continued. She carefully moved to sit next to him.

"I'm sorry, Erik. Am I…any better than that?" she asked. She looked hopeful, almost pleading for absolution.

"Oh, Christine, of course you are!" he replied. He ventured to touch her hand with his. He was wearing gloves, but he was still very wary about touching her. But he needn't have feared. She smiled at him and curled her fingers around his. His heart began to pound.

"Erik, I…I don't know what to do about you. You've very much confused me!" she told him. "You say I can go home but…but can I come back?" His heart leapt and he almost kissed her right there. He resisted; there was no reason for have her die of shock and fear.

"Of course, dear!" he exclaimed.

"Thank you, Erik. I know I was horrible at first, but I feel awful for you," she whispered and _wonder of wonders_, laid her head on his shoulder. How this empty-headed child had somehow captured his heart so that a mere touch like this excited him to no end was beyond him. But he couldn't help but enjoy it. He actually dared to rest his head atop hers and she didn't pull away! She didn't push him back. And he almost could swear she snuggled into his chest.

"_Christine!_" a voice cried from outside. Christine sat up in shock. Erik slammed the window shut and signaled to the driver to race away. As he shut the other window, he saw the pale face of that wretched boy Raoul De Chagney! Damn him! If Christine had been quiet before, now she seemed like she wasn't even breathing.

"Christine? Are you alright?" Erik asked nastily.

"Erik, don't get yourself all worked up over Raoul! He's a foolish boy who thinks himself in love with me," Christine told him. Truthfully, she sounded so annoyed at the boy he forgave her, foolishly. Looking back, he should have jumped from the carriage and killed the boy where he stood. But he didn't. As the ride went on in silence, he broached the subject he'd been dreading all night.

"Here, Christine. This is the key to the gate by the Rue De Scribe. It is the only one so you will not be followed. This leads directly to the lake. Now, once you are at the lake, this key here will fit into a hole in the wall by the lake. It will ring my 'doorbell' so I will know to come and get you," he explained, perhaps a little too quickly. He didn't want to let her go. He handed the two items with her. She sat and stared at the odd-shaped 'doorbell' key. In truth, an alarm would go off if anyone was in the lake anyway, but this gave a different signal so he knew enough not to kill her. She gave him a small smile, although she still seemed puzzled. He sat there, waiting for a rejection, or perhaps for her not even to acknowledge him. But she looked up at him and gave him the sweetest smile, and said words which rang in his head for hours afterwards:

"_Erik,_ _I promise I will come back to you_…"


End file.
